


It's In His Blood

by BigBadLittleRed



Category: The Magicians (TV)
Genre: Caregiving, Depression, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Quentin saves the day, Quentin the King
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-24
Updated: 2018-03-02
Packaged: 2019-03-23 10:16:29
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,317
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13785363
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BigBadLittleRed/pseuds/BigBadLittleRed
Summary: It turns out, after everything, Quentin is a far better king than anyone expected. He returns to Fillory in an attempt to make peace with the Fillorians, and for once, things seem to go their way.





	1. The Second King's Return

**Author's Note:**

> ( I started this fic because I was looking at the Wikipedia for the Magicians novels, and I found out that Quentin's middle name is 'Makepeace' and literally how am I not supposed to write about that? )

It seems like Quentin shows up in the nick of time, standing small and fragile against a band of angry Fillorians. He had no magic, no backup, had simply waltzed up to the raging people and called out loud enough to gain their attention. Eliot prays to whatever higher beings were watching that he had some sort of plan, that the cavalry was on its way, but knowing Quentin he really doubted it.

 

“Listen, those are my friends you have there.” Quentin says politely, pointing to Eliot and Margo, the former in a forced kneel on the grass and the latter thrown over a man’s shoulder.

 

“Who are you?” A man, one of the bigger ones, demands.

 

“My name is Quentin Coldwater, I’m the second King of Fillory.” He says with a nervous smile, there’s an uprising of unrest that goes through the crowd. “Now please, before you complete this amazingly well-done revolt, do you mind if I just talk for a minute? Maybe with someone in charge, or could I just…?” He steps over to a nearby tree stump and climbs up onto it.

 

“We’ve had enough of you children of Earth!” One woman shouts, the others start to jeer in agreement, Quentin holds out his hands in a peaceful gesture as the crowd grows more angry.

 

“Q, just take off!” Eliot shouts, getting nailed in the back of the head by someone's fist and collapsing into the dirt from the impact. He grunts as he pulls himself from the ground, sitting up weakly, a sword is placed under his throat.

 

“Let’s not be hasty, can I just talk please?” He asks, steepling his fingers together and waiting patiently for the noise to die down. “There’s a lot more going on than you know of, High King Eliot and High Queen Margo have been manipulated by a far greater threat than you realize.” He explains.

 

“We’re the ones being manipulated!” A man snarls, Quentin sighs and lowers his hands to his sides.

 

“I’m gonna be real with you guys, they’ve made a fucking mess of this beautiful place.” He says, earning complete silence for the statement other than Margo’s grumbled objections. “But you shouldn’t be mad at them, you should be mad at the creatures that made them do that.” He shifts from one side to the other. “The Fae have been occupying Whitespire and manipulating the King and Queen by threat of harm.” He announces, loud enough for everyone to hear.

 

“We haven’t seen any fairies!” The man holding Margo objects.

 

“That was on purpose, to make these two seem like complete idiots.” He gestures to his friends, biting his lip. “They’re invisible to those who don’t know of them, but Margo and Eliot made a deal so you could see them. They risked their lives repeatedly trying to keep you safe!” He insists.

 

“And where have you been, so-called second King of Fillory?” A woman quips, Quentin slowly bows his head as a flush builds on his cheeks.

 

“I’ve been more irresponsible than my friends.” He shakes his head, crossing his arms self-consciously. “When magic died I was on Earth, I couldn’t reach Fillory. But even after I found the way here, I was too busy trying to restore magic.” He steps down off of his stump. “High King Eliot was trying to protect me from the Fairy Queen’s manipulation, he kept me secret, kept me away.” He explains weakly.

 

“Another mistake made by the High King, then!” The man next to Eliot delivers a swift kick to the king’s side, who grunts and rolls over in the grass.

 

“Hey!” Quentin snaps, hands clenching into fists as his nostrils flare. “You are allowed to be angry, you’re completely entitled to be pissed off but it is not their fault. Not entirely, at least.” He slowly approaches Eliot, the crowd hesitantly shifts to the side to allow him through.

 

“Remind me never to underestimate your ability to be nice to people.” Eliot says under his breath as he takes Quentin’s outstretched hands to help himself up. Margo is set down, she storms over to where they stand and brushes her hair away from her face in irritation.

 

“It’s about time you showed up.” She insists, Quentin nods his head.

 

“I’d never abandon you guys, you’re…” He glances away from Margo towards Eliot, who returns the expression of 'we'll talk about this later' as casually as he can. “Anyways…” He turns back to the people, who are waiting expectantly, having crowded around them.

 

“Why shouldn’t we just cut your heads off now?” A man sticks the tip of a sword to Quentin’s throat, he holds up his hands carefully as Eliot grabs his shoulder.

 

“B-Because despite all of our mistakes, we... we could do so much better.” Quentin promises, reaching up gently and pushing at the flat end of the blade with his finger. “I’m here to stay, in Fillory, if you’ll have me. I’ll rule beside Eliot and Margo, I’ll keep them in check.” He assures, clasping his hands together pleadingly.

 

“Why should we trust you?” The man with the sword grumbles.

 

“You’ve had spiteful rulers before, firm hands and complete asswipes…” Eliot speaks up, his voice shaking slightly as he gestures to himself. “But Quentin is the most loving and kind person I’ve ever met, and he’d never look down on a single one of you even if his life depended on it.” He says sincerely, Eliot nudges Margo, who nods her head.

 

“What he said, the kid’s a soft touch.” Quentin glances back at them with a small frown, eyebrows furrowing together. “What? You can’t even get mad without looking cute, you know it’s true.” She tells him, the young man huffs and pushes his hair behind his ear.

 

“The point is, we’re going to start over from here. Without magic, it’s going to be hard, but back on Earth people do amazing things without magic.” He says, standing up on his toes and doing a slow spin to look around. “I know we’re capable of having a prosperous reign, it might take some time but we’ll figure it out.” He carefully holds out his hand to the man holding the sword. “You’ve just got to trust us, we'll be open and honest, and if the fairies return then you'll see them and we'll warn you.” He flexes his fingers out, nodding his head encouragingly at the man.

 

There’s an overwhelming silence that fills the air, the man still has the sword outstretched and could lop off Quentin’s arm if he so pleased. But then slowly, he reaches out, shaking the king's hand.

 

“Your head will be the first to come off if it goes awry.” He says quietly, Quentin swallows but nods.

 

“May my blood be spilled if I fail you.” He agrees, then steps back. “How about we start up a communication system, between the people and those who reign?” He offers, there’s a murmur of interest from the crowd.

 

“Communication system?” The man inquires, Quentin smiles gently.

 

“We can have someone from each village appointed to speak for your people. They’ll come to us and present problems you have, you can elect them yourselves.” He says, the man contemplates this for a moment.

 

“And you’ll listen?” He questions.

 

“I’ll host meetings myself, we’ll make it a regular thing!” He suggests, the crowd’s anger seems to be dissipating, tension seeping from the situation.

 

“Thank you, your majesty.” The man says, sounding mildly confused. Eliot and Margo themselves were confused at how the socially awkward nerd had just proposed to create a form of democracy and completely diffused a rage-induced revolt in just a few minutes.

 

"Are we really going to listen to this stranger?!" A man pushes to the front, eyes blazing with anger. "Our crops are dying, our villages have been destroyed, and they are to blame!" He pulls out a knife, Eliot grabs Quentin by the waist and yanks him backwards just as the man swipes. Another few men grab at the attacker, there's a brawl that begins to break out. 

 

"Go, now." The man from before with the sword tells them, pushing them through the crowd and towards the carriage. "I'm putting my faith in you." He says, voice sincere but also warning.

 

“Thank you for giving us another chance. I know how hard that must be.” Quentin returns immediately, shaking the man’s hand again, eager. “What’s your name?” He asks.

 

“Howgar.” The man greets cautiously, Quentin smiles.

 

“Nice to meet you, Howgar. I hope in the future we might meet again on more pleasant terms.” The man almost seems amused at this, his lips twitching slightly as he glances behind Quentin towards the High King and Queen in mild puzzlement.

 

“Your boyfriend’s weird.” Margo says, Eliot shoves her gently in warning and Quentin turns his head briefly to glare at her.

 

“Well, we should be off! King Quentin, accompany us back to the castle, we have a lot to clean up and fix.” Eliot announces, taking Quentin by the shoulders and waving to the people, who are now starting to settle down slightly. “Thank you all for not killing us painfully!” He says quickly as they hurry to the carriage.

 

“I’ll keep you to your word, King Quentin!” Howgar calls after him, Quentin shoots him a thumbs-up and yelps as Eliot lifts him under the arms and into the carriage.

 

“Home, please!” Eliot tells the driver as Margo gets in, climbing in after her and shutting the door. “Oh my god, I can’t believe you just pulled that off!” He says with a sigh of relief and disbelief, Quentin smiles with a small nod, obviously proud of himself.

 

“I took speech and debate in high school to counteract my social anxiety.” He shakes his head, eyes slightly distant as he seems to be lost in thought for a moment. “Didn’t think it’d come in handy that much, though.”

 

“I didn’t know you were such a peacemaker.” Margo says quietly, trying not to seem too impressed.

 

“It’s my middle name,” Quentin grins, Eliot snorts and Margo rolls her eyes. “No, literally! Quentin Makepeace Coldwater, that’s my name.” He says as he glances between the two of them, completely serious.

 

“What?!” Eliot demands, partially disgusted and slightly baffled.

 

“Makepeace… It’s my middle name.” He repeats hesitantly, Margo leans against the wall of the carriage and sighs heavily.

 

“I need a drink.”


	2. The King's Sickness

They aren’t exactly sure if it’s the absence of fairies or Quentin’s sudden presence, but things are relatively calm for the first few weeks. There’s still problems, like the patches of fairy eggs growing in the fields and the impending doom that is the knowledge of the eventual return of the Fairy Queen herself. But the people aren’t angry, not with Quentin starting up a whole new way of life for Fillory.

 

He spends day and night organizing things, writing plans and talking to advisors and more importantly, civilians. He brings in common servants, introduces himself as if they didn’t know who he was and then discusses the rule of the kingdom casually. The news of the new King in Fillory sweeps the country, this new King who promised change and seemed to be acting on it.

 

It’s strange, to be able to sit back and watch Quentin take over. Eliot and Margo had been in charge for so long, constantly moving and plotting, that doing nothing was almost irritating. Of course, they aren’t exactly left without anything to do, Quentin has a discussion with them alone that they each need a part to do.

 

They eventually decide that Eliot will be doing agriculture and monitor the resources of the kingdom and their land, Margo will be in charge of the military and negotiations with other kingdoms. Quentin will be mostly in the political area, not with other lands but those at home. He gets along well with the people, is polite and talkative, down to Earth enough to please Fillorians. It’s like all this time there was a missing puzzle piece, and now that he had arrived, it was all falling into place.

 

But, after all, things never seem to go their way for long. Unfortunately, their new cornerstone has an unfortunate history with mental illness, and it isn’t long before the stress has torn Quentin down and he’s locked himself in his chambers.

 

“The servants are worried, your majesties. He’s not left his room all day, it’s unlike him.” Tick tells them, wringing his hands anxiously as he looks between them.

 

“Don’t worry about it, Tick… King Quentin does this sometimes, give him a few days and he’ll snap out of it.” Eliot gets to his feet as he explains this, setting his cup down on the table and adjusting his tunic. “I know how to handle it, he’ll be fine.” He assures.

 

“Is he ill, sire?” Tick questions, seems to be worried himself actually.

 

“In a way. Just stay here and help Margo, I’ve got this.” He turns on his heel and walks out of the room, making his way towards the second King’s chambers.

 

He knocks on the door as a warning, knowing that Quentin wouldn’t even be able to move from his bed to answer. He steps inside and finds the place a predictable mess, things thrown about, broken and ripped up. On the far side of the room, there’s a Quentin shaped lump on the mattress, hidden away under blankets.

 

“Everyone’s worried about you, Q.” He says, starting to pick things up. There’s no movement from the bed, which is predictable, he just continues cleaning up the big things. He turns over a chair, pushes some torn up parchment to the side to create a pathway to the bed.

 

He climbs up onto the bed, pulling the blankets away gently and finding Quentin curled up in a ball. He’s awake, eyes glassy and distant as they stare into nothing, motionless. If Eliot hadn’t seen this before, he’d be more worried than he actually is. But it still hits him deep in the gut, that Quentin suffers like this and Eliot can’t really help.

 

“You’ve been kicking ass and taking names lately, worked yourself too much…” He reaches down and cards gentle fingers through Quentin’s hair, pushing his bangs back away from his face. “Lovely boy, I’m so proud of you.” He leans over and kisses Quentin’s temple, kicks off his shoes and slides himself under the blankets next to him.

 

The younger doesn’t respond, barely even seems to muster the energy to look at him. His eyes are red-rimmed, his bottom lip quivering just a little, Eliot cups his cheek and smooths a thumb over his cheekbone. If there was one thing Eliot was good at, better than he was at anything else, it was taking care of Quentin. He could remember the years of it from their lifetime before, in the strange part of his head that seemed both like a dream and a distant memory.

 

“You just rest, all right? Let Margo and me run the place for a couple of days.” He presses their foreheads together, Quentin breathes out shakily and manages to nod slowly against him.

 

That was all he needed.

 

-

 

After that, Eliot balances his kingly duties with his other responsibilities, always making time to go to see Quentin. He talks to some of the servants, which he realizes he’s never done all that much. The poor men and women almost tremble when he speaks to them, but he explains that King Quentin needs some extra help for a little bit and they should keep away from his room and run things through Eliot instead.

 

“Is he all right, your majesty?” One young man questions, Eliot recognizes him as one of Quentin’s favorite servants, the one he always stops to chat with.

 

“He’s… sick.” He says cautiously, not wanting to spill Quentin’s problems to the entire palace. “He’s been sick for a long time, but it comes and goes in severity. Don’t worry, it’s not contagious and it’s not lethal, I’m going to look after him personally.” He promises, this seems to put some at ease and others appear more unnerved at the thought of High King Eliot being in charge of the care of their favorite King.

 

They’re quiet, probably ready to be dismissed, but Eliot wants to ease their minds. Quentin might be the nice King, but Eliot could at least be nicer than he was, he shouldn’t have neglected that.

 

“Listen, I know I’ve been a bad King… I’ve done some fucked up shit, and some of it was my fault and some of it wasn’t. The bottom line is, out of all the things I’ve ever done wrong, Quentin wasn’t one of them.” He explains quietly, his fingers twisting together in front of him anxiously, a habit he’d picked up from Quentin unfortunately. “I would never hurt him, he means too much to myself and Queen Margo.” He decides to tack on Margo’s name, help her get some extra ‘good royalty’ points.

 

Another few seconds of silence pass, then Eliot sighs.

 

“Thank you for your time, you’re dismissed.” He finally says, they scurry off and Eliot turns to head to Quentin’s room.

 

He steps inside and fetches a glass of water from a nearby pitcher set out, walking over to the bed and setting it down on the table. He finds Quentin in a similar state as he’d left him this morning, head barely peeking out of the covers and eyes narrowed slightly with fatigue.

 

“I’m starting to think that cute little servant guy you talk to all the time is crushing on you.” He says casually, just trying to speak, to let Quentin know that despite everything he didn’t mind this. Eliot moves away from the bed and slips over to the window, pulling it open and letting the sunshine and the cool spring breeze in. “Fresh air, you always like that, yeah?” He traipses back over to the bed and picks up the glass of water.

 

“Come on then, Q.” He rolls the young man as gently as he can onto his back, slipping his hand under the back of his head. “I’m not going to sit around while you dehydrate yourself.” He insists, lifting Quentin’s head up and grimacing at the dead weight, he presses the glass to his lips and lets out a quiet breath of relief when he drinks. He gets Quentin to drain half the glass, then settles him back down and starts fussing with the blankets.

 

“Maybe we can get you a nice room with a day bed, a change of scenery somewhere nearby.” He says quietly, remembering their days at the mosaic. “We could get some potted plants, flowers, have those girls you like so much tend to it.” He fixes Quentin’s hair back, frowning at the way it’s grown greasy with lack of care.

 

Quentin turns his head slightly, peering up at Eliot, silently watching. Eliot simply smiles at him, leans down to kiss his forehead. When he stands up, he gets to work clearing up the room of all its mess. He should probably get a servant to do it, but he’s not sure about Quentin’s feelings on letting people see him like this. He’d never let Arielle see him like this, even during the days when things started to get bad, he would rather curl up somewhere out of sight than stay in bed where she could see.

 

“I…” Quentin’s voice is weak, Eliot pauses in his work and heads back to the bed, eager to hear that beautiful voice. “I slept with her.” The young man’s eyes are suddenly brimming with tears, Eliot frowns.

 

“Slept with who? One of the servant girls you like?” Quentin shakes his head, Eliot thinks about it, puzzled.

 

“Poppy…” Eliot blinks in surprise, thinking about the girl that had followed Quentin into the woods to meet them that night.

 

“The crazy ginger?” He asks, squinting his eyes slightly, Quentin slowly nods. “Sweetheart, I love you, but you gotta stop fucking the weird ones.” He reaches over and squeezes Quentin’s shoulder, smiling just a little.

 

“N-Not mad?” Quentin’s eyebrows furrow together slightly, Eliot chuckles and pulls Quentin’s hand from the blankets to cradle it in his lap.

 

“Q, we all know that you and I aren’t exactly the most well put together people. I’ve tried to deal in my fair share of ways, so I can recognize a coping mechanism when I see one.” He sighs quietly, biting his lip as he takes in the sight of Quentin, looking sad and starting to get dirty. “Think you can sit up in a bathtub long enough for me to bathe you?” He questions, it wouldn’t be the first time they’d done it… Or would it technically be the first time considering their alternate lives ‘never really happened’? Ugh, he didn’t want to think about it.

 

Quentin gives him a look that insists he doesn’t want to move, but it looks so pitiful and Eliot can’t help the soft little ‘aw’ that escapes him.

 

“C’mon, Q, it’ll be quick. I’ll fetch someone to fix it up, and then I’ll carry you in there and scrub you down while they fix the sheets. Nice clean Q, nice clean sheets, sounds like the formula for a happy boy, huh?” He teases gently, tapping a finger to Quentin’s chin.

 

It takes quite a bit of prying, but eventually Quentin relents under his goading and allows the bath. He asks for a specific servant, a young woman named Clesta, who Eliot retrieves with only a little bit of difficultly. He recognizes her as one of Quentin’s favorites, she was probably in her twenties, with short brown hair and kind brown eyes.

 

She didn’t do anything other than say hello to Quentin as she passed, being rather professional as she slipped into the bathroom to fix everything up. She seems to come up with an excuse to leave for a moment, but ensures to tell Eliot that the bath is ready. Eliot gets Quentin sitting up, his movements slow and lethargic as he shakily does so.

 

“All right, c’mere.” He slides an arm under Quentin’s knees and wraps the other around his back, lifting with ease. Eliot carries Quentin into the bathroom, where the warm bath waits for him. He sets Quentin down, leaning him against the wall to make sure he doesn’t fall over or anything of the sorts.

 

“I can do it,” Quentin mutters as Eliot unbuttons the younger’s shirt, but makes no move to do it himself.

 

“I know,” Eliot tells him gently, helping him with his bottoms before Quentin leans on him and they walk to the bath.

 

It’s strange, the way Quentin gets during this, almost as if his body had all the energy sucked out of it. He walked like a newborn deer, shuffled his feet and held onto things so his knees didn’t give out beneath him. If Quentin was left alone like this, he’d most likely just dehydrate and malnourish himself. Because if it weren’t for Eliot, he would just lay there and not move for days, it was scary.

 

When they get over to the bathtub, a nicely sized porcelain clawfoot, Eliot lifts the smaller man up and into the bath without preamble. Quentin has always been light, but he seems smaller now, and he wonders how he was getting on without magic. Considering the idea of no magic seemed to destroy Quentin, Eliot feels a bit of guilt at not even thinking about how he was doing.

 

“In you go,” Quentin melts into the water, sighing tiredly and leaning back against the edge of the bath.

 

“I’m sorry,” He hears, voice barely a whisper, Eliot frowns and reaches his hand out to grab a small water jug nearby. He crouches down at the edge of the bath, dipping the pitcher in and starting to pour water down Quentin’s chest.

 

“I already told you, I’m not mad about Poppy.” He shakes his head, and when Quentin goes to speak again, he clicks his tongue in mild admonishment. “I’m not mad at you at all, I like taking care of you.” He promises, Quentin rolls his eyes and turns his head away. “I mean it, Q.” He insists.

 

He can practically hear Quentin’s self-loathing as he scrubs the young man down with a rag. It takes a bit of maneuvering to wash his hair, Eliot ends up with an arm under Quentin’s head and the other alternating between the water jug and lathering soap into his dark locks. Quentin sits pliantly, eyes closed and possibly even dozing, Eliot hums under his breath as he works.

 

“S’at Britney Spears?” Quentin mumbles, Eliot smirks.

 

“Maybe.” He says quietly, finishes rinsing out the young man’s hair and sits him up with a quiet groan. “There you go.” He pushes Quentin’s wet hair back, smiling as he opens his eyes. “Anyone ever tell you that you look sexy wet?” He asks jokingly, Quentin lets out a soft snort, but even if it doesn’t reach his lips, Eliot calls it a win.

 

He runs the bath water over Quentin a little more, just wasting time enjoying doing such a simple act. Quentin keeps his eyes open but stares blankly at the other end of the tub, lost in his head as usual. Eventually, Eliot calls it quits and helps Quentin out of the bath, drying him off and using the towel to ruffle his hair.

 

“I should be helping,” Quentin says, scolding himself aloud as Eliot puts him in some comfortable clothes Clesta had laid out for him. He always got a little better after a bath, something about a warm soak pulled him out of his head, even if for a little bit. It didn’t help his sour mood, but it got him talking, communicating.

 

“Take a piss if you need to, then it’s back to bed.” Eliot says with a gesture of his hands, Quentin scowls at the lack of reciprocation in the conversation but shuffles over to the toilet to relieve himself. Eliot waits patiently as he washes his hands and then helps Quentin back into the room.

 

The sheets are cleaned, and there’s a pretty vase on the bedside table with brightly colored flowers he doesn’t quite recognize but smell vaguely like lavender mixed with cherries. Quentin climbs into bed, throwing himself down onto the mattress and going limp, Eliot stares at him for a moment.

 

“I have to go, but I’ll be back in a few hours with a snack. I’ll even read you your favorite Fillory book.” He offers, Quentin adjusts his head on the pillow but says nothing. Eliot leans over the mattress and smacks a kiss to the young man’s damp hair. “Be good, okay?” He earns a small nod, smiling gently as he leans away.

 

He slips out of the bedroom, running a hand through his hair and sighing as he heads back towards the throne room. He’d rather spend every day looking after Quentin than attend his kingly duties to be honest, at least he felt like he was making a difference when it came to him.


	3. Knights and Dragons

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ( Just thought I'd add in this little chapter, pretty cute, nothing big )

It's only a matter of time before those who are still in unrest about the High King still being in charge start to act out. There are acts of vandalism, mutilations of cattle, even the death of a guard. But nothing prepares them for an assassination attempt on the High King.

 

They’re having their monthly meeting with local representatives, conversing before the meeting is called to order. Quentin spends the time close to Eliot, leaning against him with Eliot’s arm wrapped around his shoulders. The representatives are still wary of Eliot, but they aren’t as cold to him as they once were. It was because of Quentin and he knew that, the way the man trusted him completely helped the others see that Eliot wasn’t a bad guy.

 

“Your majesty,” They turn around, a man stands before them that Eliot doesn’t recognize. He sees movement and for a moment he starts to hold out his hand, ready to shake, when he realizes the man is holding a knife.

 

“El!” Quentin yanks him back and grabs the knife in one jerky motion, putting his force into pushing the man away with his fist wrapped around the blade. The blade pulls back then twists slightly and thrust forward in the man’s fury, sliding through flesh like butter. The guards are rushing forward, people are spilling away, and the noise level is deafening as everyone is shouting.

 

Eliot grabs Quentin, turning him around with searching hands and eyes, trying to find any lethal wounds on him. The only wound is his hand, the blade stuck straight through and blood dripping from his fingers and onto the tiled floor in crimson droplets. Margo is rushing over, looking panicked and worried.

 

“Jesus Christ, Q.” He takes the man’s hand gingerly and moves to the younger’s side, wrapping an arm around his waist. “Tick, go get a nurse.” He instructs, helping Quentin over to the thrones. He sits the young man down and removes the decorative fabric belt from around his tunic, wadding it up and observing the wound that is slowly creating a puddle of blood on the floor.

 

“It’s through my hand, El, I…” Quentin’s eyes are wide, his mouth hanging open slightly, he’s pale.

 

“Don’t look at it, okay?” He reaches forward and grabs Quentin’s chin, smiling weakly. “Take a minute to observe my beauty, just don’t pass out.” He urges, Quentin smiles and laughs quietly, the noise is a little hysterical. He carefully wraps the scarf-like fabric around the knife as best he can, pausing when Quentin reaches out and tucks his fingers into the older man’s tunic.

 

“It’s a flesh wound, Quentin.” Margo tells him casually, Quentin gives her an incredulous look and she runs her hand over his hair affectionately.

 

The nurse arrives soon after, and the woman pulls out the knife without any warning. Quentin screams, Eliot and Margo wince, and Tick covers his eyes. The wound is wrapped tight and then Eliot and a guard haul Quentin to the med-bay while he’s half-conscious, woozy from blood loss and shock. He can see the looks on the people’s faces, the murmurs of everyone, but he’s not worried about it right now.

 

They get Quentin to the infirmary, Margo sitting on one side of the cot and Eliot on the other. He keeps a hand tucked into Quentin’s good one, squeezing gently every so often, while Margo strokes his hair. He talks weakly, about the plans for more local gardening than huge fields for supplies to be distributed post-grow. He’s nervous, in pain, so Eliot nods and listens, smiles and returns the conversation.

 

“There you go, your majesty.” The woman says after the wound has been properly sealed and the bandage is wrapped around it. “I’d suggest keeping it still for a while,” She tells him as he carefully pulls his hand back to observe it warily, it didn’t look half bad wrapped in gauze.

 

“Good thing I’m right-handed.” He mutters, then tries to sit up. Immediately, Margo plants a hand on his forehead and Eliot puts one on his chest, effectively forcing him back down onto the bed. “What about the meeting?” He grumbles, Eliot fixes his hair and gives his chest a gentle pat.

 

“The meeting can wait, you just survived an assassination attempt, _my_ assassination attempt thank you very much. We’ll call it off for a couple of hours, let our guests have a tour around the castle and have some lunch.” Eliot says simply, Margo nods her head and then sighs.

 

“How are you still in one piece after all this time?” She says under her breath, Quentin smirks up at her and she playfully pinches his cheek.

 

-

 

“Quentin Coldwater, what the hell are you doing?” Eliot demands jokingly as he spots the young man creeping through the halls with a litter of children following him. Quentin freezes up as the children gasp in fright and huddle closer to the young king. They ranged from around six to nine, none old enough to be wandering around a castle.

 

“We’re playing knights and dragons?” Quentin says, holding up a stick, Eliot notes that the kids have sticks as well.

 

“I see, and who are these tiny knights?” He questions, approaching carefully. Quentin lowers his ‘sword’ and walks through the gaggle of children to get to Eliot.

 

“Locals,” He replies with a small smile, he turns slightly to point at them. “Ren, Puck, Grim, Darrow, and Kreed.” Each of the children hesitantly wave, four little boys and a small girl.

 

“Q, please tell me these children’s parents know where they are.” He says quietly, Quentin frowns and nods his head.

 

“Oh yeah, of course!” He says easily, then frowns a little harder. “Well, they know they’re with me… Didn’t specify we were really leaving the courtyard, but that’s okay.” He assures with a wave of his hand.

 

“We’re fighting dragons!” One little boy crows, the others start to excitedly chatter.

 

“All right, well don’t get any scales on the tiles, the servants just cleaned up.” He says with a quiet chuckle, leaning over and pressing a kiss to Quentin’s cheek, who hums with a nod.

 

“Yes dear,” He returns with a wide grin, Eliot turns away, heading towards the throne room.

 

“Sir Q?” He hears a child ask quietly, he pauses just around the corner and listens.

 

“Yes, Madame Kreed?” He replies easily, the sound of the children’s footsteps toddling around behind him.

 

“Is the High King your husband?” She questions bravely, the footsteps stop.

 

“We’re not really married, but we do a lot of stuff married people do.” He replies, sounding flustered and a bit puzzled himself. Eliot covers his mouth to smother a laugh, listening to the kids start to ask other questions.

 

“Do you kiss?”

 

“My daddy always gives my mama big hugs in the morning!”

 

“Do you have kids?”

 

“How are you both the king if you aren’t husbands?!”

 

Quentin laughs nervously, taking a moment to calm their eager questions, Eliot peers around the corner. The young man is knelt in front of the kids, adjusting the little girl’s (Kreed, his brain supplies) ponytail.

 

“High King Eliot and I are complicated.” He murmurs.

 

“That’s what my papa said when he started seeing the baker after my mom died.” Eliot chokes on his next breath, Quentin makes a whimper of a noise.

 

“Your husband’s watching us,” Kreed points out, the little traitor. Quentin’s head whips around and he stands up, Eliot ducks behind the wall for a second and curses internally, before stepping out.

 

“Hi,” He greets, Quentin smiles shyly at him, his cheeks turning pink. “I was just… making sure that the knights in my castle were capable of their duties.” He offers weakly, Quentin smirks and ducks his head.

 

“High King, do you love King Quentin?” Kreed approaches, her brown eyes wide and soulful.

 

“Well…” He looks to Quentin, who is awkwardly looking the other direction the second Eliot meets his eyes. “You know what, fuck yes.” He says, Quentin makes a yelp of a noise as the kids burst into raucous laughter. “I mean yes, don’t repeat that!” He insists with a wave of his hand.

 

“See? Then you should be husbands!” One of the older boys urges, Quentin rubs a hand over his face and looks like he wants the floor to swallow him up.

 

“You know what, I’ll look into that.” Eliot agrees, the kids begin to hop around and cheer with delight. “What do you think, Q? Quentin Makepeace Waugh?” He questions as he approaches, placing his hands on the younger’s hips, Quentin snorts.

 

“Eliot Coldwater is more like it.” He insists, Eliot rolls his eyes.

 

“How about we do it the new age way, and just wear really flashy rings?” He suggests, Quentin smirks and nods his head.

 

“Do I get to sit on your throne?” He questions, Eliot leans in and their noses brush.

 

“No, but you can sit in the king’s lap.” He hums, their lips press together.

 

“Ooooooh,” The kids croon at them, they pull apart, clearing their throats and shifting away from one another.

 

“I think I saw a dragon near the kitchen, why don’t you go check that out?” He suggests, Quentin nods his head and one of the boys hands the man his stick.

 

“R-right, dragons.” Quentin says, voice cracking a little.

 

“Wanna play, majesty?” Kreed asks, Eliot shakes his head with a small smile.

 

“No thank you, I have a lot of king business to attend to. Someone’s gotta run this place.” He says mockingly, Quentin shoots him a look and then leaps towards the stairs.

 

“Onwards, knights!” He calls, the kids follow him down the stairs in a bustle of joy and laughter. Eliot listens to them go, he sighs with a small smile as he leans back against the wall. He pulls himself away and continues on his way towards the throne room, where Margo is waiting with Tick and the rest of the advisors.

 

“I’m in love with an idiot,” He says under his breath as he assumes his position beside Margo.

 

“You catch on fast,” She says without skipping a beat, shuffling through the papers before her.

 

“Love, majesty?” Tick asks quietly, Eliot smiles awkwardly.

 

“The goofy king with the long hair, Tick, get with the program.” Margo says with a wave of her hand, hands Eliot a paper. “Can we get this meeting over with, can’t plan a wedding if we’re too busy plotting out territory lines.” She insists, Eliot nods his head.

 

“Of course,” Tick agrees, but he looks at Eliot strangely for a good half hour after that.


End file.
